


Answer

by fiblertSOS



Category: Rubyquest
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Amnesia, Attempted reconstruction of dead bodies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Filbert Is Fucking Pissed, Filbert can't handle his emotions but keeps trying to believe he can, Gen, Gore, Mangling of dead bodies, Trying to revive a dude just to yell at him, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiblertSOS/pseuds/fiblertSOS
Summary: Filbert knew exactly what the man - or what was supposed to be a man- lying down on that bloody surgical table would tell him, if he were in a state to do so."Go to Hell, Doctor Filbert."But Filbert wasn't going.Not yet.





	Answer

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Don't read this if you're squeamish about corpses or medical stuff
> 
> I wrote this in like 2 hours because I had this nagging idea
> 
> I might continue this later? Anyway, thanks

"Agh... Dammit."

Filbert groaned, roughly spitting out a piece of surgical thread. It felt truly odd - he had remembered that particular brand being very sturdy, praised by even the pickiest surgeons. Yet, it couldn't seem to stop snapping from the light pressure of his teeth and fingers. No matter how gently the old doctor handled the synthetic string, or how slowly he tried to sew it into the scraps of flesh in front of him, the transparent string always seemed to give in.

His hands were shaking a little, he had to admit- but he was still the most skilled practitioner in the Metal Glen, god dammit. There was no way he could be overdoing his strength. Everything was normal.

_Everything was normal._

And there he was, to prove it.

After some minutes of struggling to obtain a decent amount of string from its spool, Filbert gazed back down at the pile of assorted body parts mounted on top of the surgical table; a wry smile slowly stretching the corners of his face. The sensation reminded him of something distant, strangely enough.

"Aren't you happy, though?" He asked, his quiet voice seeming to boom into the cold, silent, empty OR. Filbert didn't mind it in the slightest. "I am fixing you."

The pile of flesh refused to respond to the comment, and so, Filbert resumed his work, covering his sneer with his mask. He wasn't much of chitchat, and sarcasm was an art that more often than not escaped him entirely; some smarminess wasn't completely out of his reach, though. He neither expected nor care for an actual response. He wasn't yet mad. Filbert knew exactly what the man - or what was supposed to be a man- lying down on that bloody surgical table would tell him, if he were in a state to do so.

**Go to Hell, Doctor Filbert.**

But Filbert wasn't going.

Not yet.

The doctor placed his zooming equipment aside: he had already attached nerves and realigned the bones, and so no longer had any use for those bothersome machines. In all actuality, he despised even having to employ such technology; age and stress hadn't been very kind to his eyesight, however. Taking a deep breath and tucking a stray lock of graying hair behind his ear, the surgeon leaned in, swiftly sliding a gloved hand under the pale appendage he was to suture.

That was Red's hand, he was certain of it. He had found the stray piece of his coworker's body laying on top of a wooden box; discarded and useless. By something Filbert hesitated to call fate, a handprint scanner was mounted nearby, still functioning. Sure enough, he was holding Red's hand: bony, pale, frail. It had been transformed by rigor mortis and trauma, of course; but, by the few pictures Filbert had managed to gather by himself, that description wouldn't be too far off from its living version. In most of those pictures, Red stood alongside himself: an aloof, slightly mocking smile always present in his features. 

It felt slightly strange to sew together a body that once stood so close to his own.

The dead skin was a tad tough to pierce through, and Filbert took care not to snap the thread once again as he passed the material through the rigid flesh. He remembered doing the same process once before: according to the notes he had found scattered through the building, on a poor subject named Stitches. _What an unfortunate name_, the man thought, starting to pierce through the skin on a feminine, differently colored wrist, binding both it and Red's hand together. _Did someone truly give such a cursed name to a child? _

_But that does not really matter now, does it?_

Tightening the first stitch, Filbert turned his head, glancing to the side. On a small cabinet, lay a pile of dirty, bloodstained papers; Filbert gazed at them for a second before turning back to the task at hand. He had never though that papers could ever be his only guide, a light inside the confusing darkness of the Metal Glen. Reports, diary pages, personal notes, anything - from the time Filbert had seen the first scrap of paper lying around, he had known to gather as much written information as possible.

Taken by a nagging curiosity, the man then ran his (gloved, of course) finger through a corpse's blood, and had attempted writing something- which made him realize most of the notes he had gathered were most likely made by his own hand. His notes talked about many subjects: the daily life in the Glen, his coworkers, his patients, his procedures, and many more mental ramblings he could think of.

Many of them were annoyed complaints about his life, which were pretty much useless to his current situation. Others, however, detailed much more relevant facts about his past life and duties.

And _those_ notes mentioned a setup, a case of medical sabotage. All planned and done by a single man.

After finding his rhythm, Filbert worked quickly through the suture of the hand, making sure every single part was secured in place, and eliminating all signs of a possible rejection. He pulled away, admiring his work with a critical glare. The skin colors and physiognomy were a bit of a mismatch, he thought: but there were no other options available to him at the moment. That woman's body was the only corpse that was both compatible and well-preserved in the building. If Red complained, he could very well go after another arm to replace that one. Filbert didn't quite care about that.

He gazed at the completed suture, a satisfied glint to his eyes, before stepping to this left, lowering his hand to feel for Red's exposed mandible. The skull had been a very time consuming challenge, but there it was. reconstructed from fragments, synthetic materials and other types of bone. Beautiful and ready for a new face. Filbert pressed against it with a thumb, appreciating the smoothness he was able to achieve.

"I will fix you," Filbert whispered, the sound completely mangled by the fabric of the mask, "so I can take you to where you belong."

**Go to Hell, Doctor Red.**


End file.
